Humanity is Overrated
by Nyaar
Summary: House&Wilson friendship, HousexStacy implied, WilsonxJulie implied. Spoilerish from Season 2, eps 7, 11 and 14.  Humanity, exgirlfriends and wives are overrated, some friendship are not.


As it's well know, English is not my primary language. That means that I probably need your help, people. I had this beta-read by **nayaramalfoy** who kindly corrected all the mistakes she saw so your eyes shouldn't fall off from your faces chuckles. Plus, dear **nilhenwen** was so kind to correct all my non-native mistakes, so big big hugs for her too.

The day had been long enough without Stacy's visit to his office, James Wilson mused, closing his briefcase on the desk before loosening the knot in his tie slightly. The moment he found out House stole her psychiatrist's files, he also knew that Stacy would come, sooner or later to his office, ranting and raving about her ex-boyfriend.

Wilson never knew how House always found a way to damage whatever kind of relationship he managed to have with people, especially with Stacy. Whether he was some kind of masochistic jerk that understood love the other way around or if what he really loved were confrontations, the oncologyst really didn't know and it wasn't like he was going to find that out anytime soon regardless.

The man sighed loudly and lifted his coat from the hook along with his briefcase before heading to the Diagnosis office.

The glass door opened without a sound, and Wilson stood in the doorway.

"Are you planning on staying here all night?", said the oncologist, who had his cloat on and rocked the briefcase, which hung on his right. He seemed calm, but was trying hard to conceal his irritation. He was tired, his back ached and he had to lecture his best friend again because he was being a jerk with Stacy. Sometimes he wished that somebody would switch places with him now and then, and now was one of those times.

House didn't take his eyes of the papers he had in his hands, nor did he soften the sulky quality of his face.

"Why do you ask? If you're intending to stay I'd rather be alone. Have things to read, you know."

"And wouldn't you be more confortable pretending that you're reading stretched on your couch?" Wilson almost sighed, balancing his weight.

"I'm fine here."

"You mean that you're fine sulking here", the younger man pointed frowning a bit. The only attention that House paid him was the wave of a hand, so Wilson balanced his weight again and stopped beating around the bush. "She found out, didn't she?"

At last, the diagnostician seemed to react and glanced bitterly at him.

"What's the point of asking something you already know?" he spat, glaring at him because he hated when Wilson stepped into his private life without being asked to, "Anyway, I bet Stacy loved every second ranting about me"

"She was not pleased," Wilson rolled his eyes "She is angry, and sad. And hurt. And she is within her rights, you know."

"Yeah, yeah. I'm such a bad guy with a paid ticket to Hell," House made a face and looked down to resume his reading, "Now, weren't you leaving?"

The oncologist breathed deeply and looked away "You're no child, but I'll remind you anyway: You play with fire, you get burnt. And that is a fact as long as you're sulking here because you're getting close to the flames."

"That was a good one, Mr. Obvious", the other man mocked, even though he knew his friend was only trying to help him before it was too late. Stacy was his problem, his own puzzle, and he had to solve her his way no matter how hard things got.

"She's my friend too," Wilson sighed almost reading his mind, "and she doesn't deserve being the brunt of any of your intricate plots. I don't want her hurt because of you being selfish, House. She has a mostly happy marriage but she's having a hard time with Mark's illness and you're not helping at all."

"Am I meant to be helpful? With that jerk? That's the weirdest idea I've heard today. Plus, you're supposed to care about me and not about my enemy, aren't you? What kind of best friend are you?" House's words were kind of playful, but Wilson saw that he was only hiding his true emotions. House was hating every moment of the conversation, he always did when his life was the subject. He hated being vulnerable, and that always happened when feelings even he didn't acknowledge having were involved.

"For God's sake, House, stop it." the oncologist made a tired gesture, "She's not anybody's enemy and I'm only asking you to be sure about what you are doing, that's all. And of course I'm worried about you, I thought you knew that by now. What do you think I'm doing here? I get no pleasure at all lecturing you, it's boring, tiring and mostly frustrating. I really would rather be at home."

"I thought Julie didn't talk to you. And I'm sure you prefer staying here lecturing me than being lectured by your wife at home. Am I wrong?"

Wilson swallowed, the briefcase on his hand suddenly heavier.

"N-No," he stammered, "but that's not the point. We're not talking about my problems, we're talking about your problems."

"My only problem is under this table and it's comfortably dull thanks to my little white friends, so..."

"Don't change the subject!", Wilson threw his free hand upwards in one of his so much known exasperate gestures, "God, you're impposible..."

"Yes, I am. Would you make sure you shut the door behind you on your way out, please?"

"Running away from what you did is not going to help you, you know."

"I'm not running away from anything but you. Get lost, Wilson."

"You owe her an apology, and you had better apologize before the guilt eats you up inside. I don't want to go tomorrow morning to your hom--"

Wilson's words stopped suddenly when House struck the table with his hand open, anger flickering in his eyes.

"Will you stop advisng me like you know how to save a relationship and get the hell out of here before I use my cane and make you." Hurt flashed on the oncologyst's face and House thought he had made his point at last, but he was wrong.

"Maybe I'm trying to advise you because I don't want you to make the same mistakes as I did or your own over and over again, maybe you think you have a chance with her and I don't want you to screw it up."

"Are you forgetting the fact that she's married now?"

"No, I'm not. But I'm not going to play the hypocrite saying anything against that."

Both friends stayed silent after that and Wilson, once again realising House was a hopeless case, turned to leave with a sigh.

"Maybe I already know I made a mistake and don't need to be reminded", said House suddenly, lowering the papers in defeat, and Wilson froze "Maybe... I'm here thinking about how to straighten it out."

The younger man knew better than to turn to face him now he had opened up, so he leaned on the doorframe and held the briefcase tightly with both hands.

"I don't like to remind you, either," said Wilson lowering his voice. He knew House was trying to make him an offering of peace, some kind of apology for being so thick/short?, but his words still stung.

"You always worry too much." House sighed resting his chin on his hand, glad that his friend wasn't looking at him. He hated saying that like if he already cared about what Wilson was always doing for him, but he couldn't help himself.

"That's not what Julie says..."

"Julie wouldn't recognise a lion even if it was biting her in the ass, the fool."

"...She's my wife, you know..." Wilson lowered his head, but a small smile touched his lips. It shouldn't have been there and he should have defend his wife more enthusiastically, but couldn't help it. His relashionship was sinking and House was right; Julie would lecture him the moment he put a foot over the doorstep...If she even was there and not God knows where she was. His almost happy smile dissolved into a sad one. Sometimes he needed so badly to make fun of his life that even House's snarks served as relief. "Hey, I told you we weren't talking about me..."

"Aw, crap. I though I'd distracted you..." said the diagnostician, who was now leaning fully on his chair, "Ok. Let's go home so I won't have to suffer your babbling anymore."

"Babbling?," asked Wilson incredulous turning immediatly, "I don't babble!"

"Yes, you do. And if you insist refusing me you'd be babbling even more, so save me the hard time, please" said House getting up and picking up his jacket and his bag before joining Wilson at the door.

"Aren't you going to turn off the light?," asked the younger man pointing at the lamp at House's desk.

"No. And you aren't, either. Cuddy will notice someday and I want to give her something to make a fuss about."

"You're incredible..." sighed Wilson shaking his head in defeat, and the pair went down the corridor to the parking lot. "So...Hmm... What are you going to do?"

"What about?," asked the scruffy doctor while they were approaching the elevator.

"Don't play dumb with me."

House looked at the ceiling just for a moment.

"I'm going to drive home and get drunk. Does that sound interesting enough for you?"

Wilson counted to ten and then faced his friend again.

"I was talking about Stacy."

"No! Really?" the diagnostician gave a surprised look and pushed the elevator button twice more. "How didn't I notice it? ...Wait. I was busy thanking God you had dropped that subject for good, but I should have know better you can't keep your mouth shut."

The elevator arrived at last. Its electronic bell chimed when the door opened and House went first as though the faster he exited, the better he could deceive his friend, but obviously it was no use. The oncologist went after him making a tired face and sighed again.

"At least make sure you won't have The Hangover of Doom tomorrow... and try not to sleep on the floor..."

"Are you my mom, now?" House frowned, then pointed at him with a smugg smile, "Heh. Takes one to know one, right?"

"I'm not going to pass out on alcohol on my living-room floor like you always do!," squealed Wilson infuriated, but then he rolled his eyes and looked up in defeat, "But it's not like I've never wanted to do it..."

"Yeah. I know you are no saint, Jimmy..."

The doors opened on the ground floor and they walked shoulder to shoulder to the PPTH main entrance, where they stopped. The night wasn't really cold and strangely enough for a hospital, the street was almost deserted.

Wilson didn't feel like going home at all. The conversation with his friend had discouraged him a lot about seeing his wife, but he didn't have any other choice... Well, he could go with House and stand the biggest scolding of all later, but that seemed even worse.

"Well... I suppose I had better be going," he sighed, his shoulders sinking.

"Yes Wilson, that's the spirit." House smirked, "Go and get kicked in the balls, and then you'll be the one that will sleep on the floor. That is, of course, if you behave."

The younger man threw his hand up in dismay by his friend's wonderful support, "Thanks. It's great having you laughing at me because of this when, in short, you don't remember what it's like living with somebody."

"Now you're hurting Steve McQueen's feelings. Luckily he can't hear you...", the diagnostician seemed to be somewhere between amusement and indignation, but he was looking at Wilson with a straight face. Wilson held back the desire for to rub his neck. It was not fair that he was always the one with the guilty conscience.

"I..." he sighed and shook his head in defeat "I'm going. Night, House."

"Night."

House turned from him and went limping into the night and Wilson couldn't help but sigh again. For everyone's sake, he hoped that House knew what he was doing... But of course, he didn't.

Or maybe he just knew too well, Wilson make up his mind a few weeks later.

++

He just couldn't believe it. He walked down the corridor towards the roof thinking about all the times that House had screwed with something that important. How could he throw Stacy out of his life when he had just got her, Wilson had no idea, but his shirt was still damp with her tears.

_I told you, damn it. I told you not to hurt her..._

The oncologist went upstairs to the roof skipping over some steps and then opened the door unceremoniously. The cold air bit his skin, but wasn't enough to cool his mood down.

House was sitting on the edge of the balcony, a blank expression on his face. He wasn't surprised by his friend's presence, not at all. He knew Wilson would look for him whenever he found out about his talk with Stacy, so he was expected though unwelcomed, unwanted and highly annoying.

"What did you tell her?" asked the oncologist trying to conceal his anger and frustration. Stacy hadn't told him a thing, nothing. He walked into her office and asked two, three times. She just continued putting her things in a box until Wilson took her by the shoulders and then she began to cry, and cry, and cry.

After that, he didn't need her to talk to know what happened.

"I told her she's better off without me." House said looking at the sky. Night was already over Plainsboro, but most of the stars where covered by grey, stormy clouds. If only one of those would come down and hide Wilson's expression from him, because he wasn't in the mood to stand one of his "Knight-in-Shining-Armour lectures" about right and wrong.

He was fucked up enough already.

"Huh", Wilson snorted, "That's probably true." He gave him his best 'I don't believe you' look and saw House popping two vicodin into his mouth. The diagnostician let the pills dissolve a bit in his mouth before swallowing them, savouring the bitter medicine compounds, and matched Wilson's glare with his own.

"You're an idiot," the younger one said, "You don't think she'd be better off without you." _You liar, you fucking liar! Why do you do this, House? And why do you lie to me? To me, of all people, about Stacy After what I did when she left!_

"Right. I sent her off on a whim." House made an annoyed gesture and climbed down the balcony. The clouds didn't want to cooperate with him, damn them, so he decided that moving away from his friend was the best option. Wilson might take the hint and leave him alone.

"You have no idea why you sent her off!" Exclaimed the oncologist making an exasperated gesture and blowing House's hopes about him staying silent.

"Don't do this," warned House moving away to the other side of the roof. God, why was Wilson pushing him so hard? He screwed it up, yeah, he had hurt her and himself and everything was crap, he already knew all of that. For once he didn't want to fight, but if he continued talking, just one fucking phrase more, House wold be ready to strike and score.

"This was no great sacrifice! You sent her away because you've got to be miserable!" Wilson just couldn't remain silent. He was too frustrated by his friend's behaviour, by his selfishness. Just because he had toyed with her and got burnt himself despite of the conversation they had. Because he couldn't understand why happiness was worth fighting for.

House turned in mid-walk to face him, anger radiating from his tense posture.

"Does that kind of psycho-crap help get your patients through the long nights?" he said viciously, wanting to hurt him, make him bleed because he had no right. Wilson didn't know a thing, couldn't know a thing and yet there he was, rubbing it in his face like some poor devil as though he had asked for his life to be that way "Or is it just for you? Tough love makes you feel good? Helping people feel their pain?"

At House's words, Wilson felt some of his anger turning into needles in his chest; House always knew how and where to hurt him, the bastard. He looked away for a moment, hiding from House's piercing stare. That level of meanness, the pain mixing in his eyes with anger... Had he pushed him too far?

He doubted it. And House, still facing him, seemed to confirm his thoughts. He just wanted to lick his wounds alone, that was it, his precise self-defense mechanism to keep people away when he was wrong.

"You don't like yourself," Wilson continued slowly, meaning every word but not being able to look at him straight in the eye, "but you do admire yourself. It's all you've got, so you cling to it. You're so afraid if you change, you'll lose what makes you special."

House stared at him silently. The oncologist licked his lips and turned to leave, but he just wasn't finished yet, God damn him. He was utterly determined to make him feel like the lowest crap, as if he wasn't feeling like that already.

"Being miserable doesn't make you better than anybody else, House. It just makes you miserable."

_Are you finished already, Wilson? Are you happy now that you've skinned me alive?_

The diagnostician hadn't said a thing when Wilson confronted him at last, ready to take any low blow because of his words. He was almost surprised when nothing happened, but one look into his wounded eyes was everything he needed to realise that his words had made an impression on him for once.

Good.

House saw him turning to leave for good this time and he turned himself too, leaning on the balcony like his friend didn't exist. Wilson's steps almost didn't echo on the roof, but the door made a metallic clang? when it closed. House sighed, his anger freezing in his chest, making him numb.

Yes, he was miserable and by all means, he seemed to deserve it.

_Damn it, damn it and damn him... _

Wilson stopped on his way downstairs and slammed his fist hard on the metal handrail, making it wobble and his fingers hurt, _You love her, you moron, and she had always loved you. It could have worked...! Why had you to throw it all away...? Why can't you stand being happy?! _

With a pained sigh the oncologist sat down on the step and rested his chin on his hands, not caring about his coat wrinkling.

His marriage was so fucked up that he usually found himself wanting it to end, and when House had a chance to fix his life, his second and surely last one with Stacy, he screwed it all up.

Unfair. That was so unfair, and that was why it bothered him so much.

_Why, why House? Why choose that crappy life of yours instead a good one? I just can't understand that. If only Julie and I loved each other like you and Stacy do... God, I swear I'd take any chance to right things._ His fingers ran through his hair as his own heartache opened and pulsed in his chest.

He had tried, of course he had, but Julie... She just...

Wilson sighed, feeling all miserable and sad himself. Like his other marriages this one was headed to failure too, but Julie's one hurt more than the other two. Well, he loved all his wives but he felt like he was still in love with Julie. Julie... he didn't know what she asked of him. Maybe time, maybe getting rid of his job or sending House to Hell, he didn't know.

The worst part was that he couldn't know because she didn't talk to him anymore. She was cold and distant in spite of his chocolate, flowers, dinners and other expensive gifts. He just didn't know what to do to make her happy anymore, to make it work.

Wilson was rubbing his eyes, absorbed, when the door creaked behind him. He turned, startled, but there was no one besides himself and the stairs. It must have been the cold air, and House must still be looking far away at the horizon.

He shouldn't have told him. He knew he was right about Stacy and House, but he shouldn't have told him anyway. But he was so angry...

_Crap..._

What was he going to do? He couldn't just go to the roof like they hadn't had that conversation and House wouldn't be forgiving him, anyway.

_Wonderful. Just wonderful, James. She hates me because of the things I don't do, and he hates me because of what I do. I just can't stand this nosense of life anymore..._, he almost growled, and rubbed his neck tiredly.

"Are you finished already blocking the stairs and moping or do I have to slide through the handrail? It's getting cold outside, y'know."

House's voice startled him again, minutes or hours after that, he couldn't say, but this time Wilson didn't turn around. He got up instead and leant on the wall, clearing the passage.

At least House sounded fine, as fine as he used to sound anyway.

Holding onto the handrail, the diagnostician went donwstairs painfully slowly, step by step, and Wilson asked himself how much time it had taken him go upstairs before. House glared coldly at him as if he could read his thoughts and Wilson lowered his eyes again.

_Yeah, put on your best kicked puppy face for me, Jimmy,_ House thought bitterly, gritting his teeth at the effort that was descending. If he knew James Wilson, and he did, the man would be regretting his words at that very moment, but House wouldn't give him a break easily. He had already given him the chance to leave first time he opened that door, but obviously he hadn't got the message.

"House." Wilson called him when he already had passed him and no longer was able to see his face, but House didn't stop.

The oncologist dreaded that his friend would get out to the corridor without talking to him, so he made his way downstairs. He knew that eventually the diagnostician and him would return to normal as they always did when either of them spoke bitter words, but it could take weeks for that to happen. And he couldn't stand all that time being alone, the very thought making him feel sick.

"What... What about... getting wasted somewhere?" Asked Wilson sounding rather nervous. _Pathetic. I'm just pathetic..._

"Wanna drown your guilty conscience? You have a bar right outside the hospital," the older man grunted, and suddenly gripped the handrail tightly, cursing under his breath. Damned stairs.

"Would be my treat," tried the wonder boy again taking more steps towards him. House just resumed his trip without a word. He was not going to be bought by some beers and whiskey, that was for sure... though it would be close. Very close.

"Oh, God..." Wilson sighed in defeat. He wasn't used to apologising to House but it seemed the only way he would get the company he wanted. "Fine, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, House. I can't say I didn't meant it because I think is the true, but I'm sorry anyway."

House stopped in his tracks.

"And you call that an apology? In my hometown people used to mean what they were saying, y'know." He said, not really caring about the conversation anyway. Words wouldn't make him feel any better; nothing but a long run on alcohol would really do it. A long, long one until he passed out on his couch with Wilson at his side. "Your treat, my place. I'm not in the mood for a noisy bar," he finished slowly, and the oncologist looked up in relief.

His cracked world seemed to remain whole for now, but unstable as it was, that wouldn't last for a long time. And although somehow House and him always managed to get along despite their quarrels, Julie was another story.

_She always is another story_, thought Wilson, looking down to his feet while waiting for the door to open, trying not to notice the suitcase next to him. He was sober and strangely calmed, maybe because of the hole where his marriage was. There were no more anxiety, no more pain, no more... anything. Just a dumb sense of free will and soreness in the pitch of the stomach.

_If that's how Bonnie felt she was right, I was such jerk with her._

The door opened slowly and the oncologist tried to face his friend as casually as if he was looking at the weather forecast.

Of course, he failed.

"Could I stay with you for a few days?"

House looked at him surprised. It was late enough for him to be at his home sleeping and yet he was there. Then, his eyes averted to the suitcase and the pieces fit in the puzzle.

"You idiot. You told her." He said, almost in a grunt, obviously disappointed. After three marriages, House thought that Wilson knew better. About not telling them and better about not listening to him about his wives.

The oncologist fixed his eyes on the floor for a moment, uneasy. It was far easier when he was looking at the blank door.

"She told me," he said almost in a sigh, and House stared at him stunned; he wasn't expecting that "Things have been crappy at home lately, I figured I wasn't spending enough time with her. I figured..." The diagnostician saw his shoulders slump after releasing an angry sigh, but he couldn't pin down if it was aimed to her or to himself. "Turns out you're right, it's always about sex. She's been having an affair."

The two friends stared at each other for a few seconds, and House though briefly about the situation. Wilson, at his door, asking him for a roof for over his head, some shirts and underwear in a suitcase. Awkard. The man must be really desperate if he came to him asking for help. Really desperate.

But wasn't it him that despaired whenever any of his marriages failed? Didn't he always end up at his door when he felt guilty about cheating on Bonnie?

And wasn't Wilson always there whenever he needed him and when Stacy... when Stacy...?

_Holy crap..._

House moved aside, unblocking the passage.

"Want a beer?"

Wilson picked up the suitcase and got in, heading for the living room. Sure, why not? After weeks I still feel the side effects of our last binge drink... But then people say that pain kills pain, so...

The night Stacy resigned from PPTH they went to House's place and got drunk, so very drunk that the next morning, hangover was hell. They weren't young anymore, that was for sure when they got up with their bodys aching. At least, neither House nor Wilson ended sleeping on the floor; House in all bad day glory with his leg aching more than usual would have been the end of the hospital.

A terrible day, it was. Wilson marvelled about House's stomach resistance to alcohol because nausea was driving him mad, but then he remembered that his friend was more accustomed than him to drink and mix until he passed out.

Passing out. Wilson thought that sounded good, because the ache in his stomach was lifting to his chest and it was beginning to feel uncomfortably close to his throat.

House limped to the kitchen and picked up a couple of beers from the fridge, not without snacking on some of the sandwiches he was making before the unexpected guest arrived. Then he went back to the living room just to stop by the doorframe, forgetting for a moment to chew what was in his mouth; Wilson had taken one of his scotch bottles and was drinking straight out of the bottle, his coat and suitcase discarded in a corner of the room.

The diagnostician raised his eyebrows a little and resumed his walking towards the couch, sitting beside his friend. Then stopped the music that was playing on the stereo and turned on the tv instead. Wilson didn't move or way anything; he was too absorbed by his thoughts.

He was wrong. He was very wrong when he thought about House and Stacy. Love was never enough. He had always loved his wives and, what for? He always ended on House's couch with his life split.

Wilson tried to throw back a gulp of scotch, but House grabbed the bottle by the neck and snatched it from his hand.

"What are you doing?"

"No, what are _you_ doing." The diagnostician put the bottle aside far from his friend, but he wasn't angry, just fairly bored. "I don't think I offered you whiskey."

Wilson frowned, irritated.

"I can't get drunk with beer."

"Yes, you can. You did pretty well a fair amount of times before." House zapped channels constantly, looking for something on the cable that didn't want to be found. Eventually he left his bad leg on the table and suppressed a groan; as if his usual pain wasn't enough he was still sore because of the knee of that sadistic Mr.I'm-the-widower-of-a-whale, God damn him.

"I don't want to get drunk with beer."

"That's the point."

"What? You don't want me to get drunk?" For a moment, Wilson stared at him surprised. Then, his annoyance overtook him again "That's pretty unfair due the last time I got drunk with you."

Yeah, thought House, don't remind me of it. "You're such a crybaby when drunk, don't wanna suffer you." He dismissed him with a wave of the hand, never looking away from the TV. He couldn't find anything interesting, so he muted it and let the images pass in front of his eyes.

"Wha...Wait a moment. I am... what?"

"A crybaby. Moaner. Baby boy. Whiner."

Wilson was too stunned to say anything coherent and stared at his friend with his mouth open, incredulous.

"Three marriages," continued the diagnostician, "It's time for you to learn, don't you think? You're no child and you get burnt anyway. I don't know why you give me advice you dodn't take yourself."

"Because--!" Wilson stopped suddenly, speechless. Because of what? He had no response to that. He breathed furiously and glared to his right where he was sitting looking at the TV like no one was with him. "So you haven't forgiven me yet."

"No. I haven't had dinner yet." House said, and slowly got up, picked up his cane and whiskey and went to the kitchen. He leant his cane against the counter and took a look at his half done sandwich.

Wilson's third marriage sucked in the end like they all had always sucked, and the boy wonder depressed himself over them even more when drunk. While House drank to drown his sorrows, Wilson drank and let his sorrows drown him, and that's what had happened when Stacy... when she left for good with Mark a couple of weeks before.

They were empting a scotch bottle in almost a sacred silence, both lost in his own minds, when the oncologist started to talk. He didn't even care if his friend was listening to him and, in fact, House couldn't tell anything what Wilson had said; the diagnostician had drunk almost a gallon of whatever he could find at home and then mixed it with his pills to pass out in a reasonable amount of time.

Though stoned, he remembered the sad, sobbing voice lulling him into sleep.

He took a piece of bologna. Neither Jimmy, nor him needed a weepy session that night.

Wilson stared blankly at the TV for a while, his fingers scratching the couch's fabric, and suddenly got up and followed him. The diagnostician was about to start his dinner when he leaned on the doorframe.

"How kind of you waiting for my marriage to sink to take revenge on me about what happened on the roof, you resentfull ass."

House put another piece of bologna in his mouth and looked at him, slightly mad.

"If I wanted to take revenge on you, your pitiful self and your suitcase would have stayed out of my place. But that can be set right fairly easy, you know."

"Now that's even kinder of you." Wilson growled, frowning and crossing his arms, "You're a jerk, House. I may be a whinner, but I don't mix alcohol with drugs to pass out and avoid my feelings."

"News is, Wilson, that not avoiding your feelings and weeping and sobbing all over a glass like a girl doesn't make you a better person than me." the older man took a bit of his dinner and gave him a bitter look, "I've already told you that you're wrong if you think I'm gonna be the kind of friend you think you need. The kind of friend you weren't, by the way." He said almost casually, and Wilson ground his teeth.

"Don't you dare!", he pointed straight at him, "You didn't want to talk to me! You never want to talk to me about yourself, never! I wanted to talk, I want to talk, I... I need it!"

"If you wanna talk about how your life sucks go to a shrink. It's a bit expensive, but he may pretend he's listening to you. And he wouldn't take for granted the right of running over you if you don't wanna talk about your crap."

"I've already apologized for that!" Wilson threw his hands up, exasperated, and swallowed hard as a sudden nausea hit him. All his anger was straining his already upset stomach. "I was angry and frustrated and meant every word, but I should have held my tongue, I've already told you!"

"You didn't meant it."

"I mean it now!"

"Apology accepted. But you can't have the scotch, it's only for grown up people with stubble." House said sticking a knife in the counter. Then he pointed vagely to his paling form, "Whiners and crybabies have their insides too soft to play with it."

A low growl left Wilson as he leant his head on the doorframe, a hand over his belly. He was so right about the whiskey that he didn't want to complain; his stomach was lurching badly with the small amount he had ingested.

_Damn whiskey, damn mixing, and damn my stomach that can't handle anything for weeks after a night here._

"I bet you have pretty good experience with sleeping on the couch by now, so I'll leave it all to you." House said wrapping a napkin around his sandwitch and grabbing his cane. Being pretty sure that his friend wasn't going to get near the scotch bottle anytime soon, he headed to his bedroom to have dinner in bed while reading some medical magazine.

Wilson watched at him leaving the kitchen and asked himself why the significant people in his life gave him the cold shoulder. Maybe that was some kind of poetic justice. Maybe Julie and this post-infarction House was what he deserved after all the affairs he had had while married to Bonnie. Not that House was kind when he had the proper use of both legs, but he was... At least he seemed to care a bit. Sometimes.

His anger and sadness seemed to fade as the unease of his stomach spread through his body. When his stomach lurched again he suddenly covered his mouth and ran to the sink, bringing up all that he had inside it.

"Try not to puke all over the couch!" He heard his friend yell from his room while he was retching, his whole body straining. House sighed as the sink tap ran meaning that Wilson had finished and resumed his reading.

The oncologist stood bent over the sink, catching his breath and wiping his mouth several times. His body seemed happier now he had thrown up all the whiskey and his mind felt all numb, tired as the rest of his body.

_Should go to sleep. Tomorrow's gonna be a bitch...Sigh. It turns out that I should thank him for taking the scotch away from me... Aw. Yeah. A hangover tomorrow along with my stomach would have been all I need. _He sighed and made his way to House's room, hoping that the man wouldn't want to resume their fight; he was dead tired and not in the mood anymore.

"Couch is safe" Wilson mumbled from the door and the diagnostician briefly looked at him; he didn't seem to be in very bad shape after all. "Blanket is where it always is?"

"Yup."

Wilson opened the closet and almost disappeared in a disaster of wrinkled shirts, throusers and jackets.

"Feeling better?" Asked House still reading and chewing his dinner.

The oncologist stopped dead his search at House's words, but resumed it as fast as he could. _Did he already ask about me? I'm not asleep yet, am I?_ His hands grabbed the blanket at last and tugged, taking it out of the closet. Then he tried to straighten the clothes a bit, managing to take a look backwards; he could bet that House was looking at him.

"Yeah... I think so," Wilson muttered picking up the blanket, stunned. "But tomorrow I'll have a sore stomach."

"That's why I told you not to have the whiskey."

Wilson frowned at the haughtiness of his voice.

"You didn't tell me anything, you just snatched it from my hand." He remarked, a hand on his hip and all his thoughts about not arguing forgotten.

"It's pretty much the same for me."

"If you had done it before I started drinking, you'd have saved me a lot of trouble."

"I would have if you hadn't picked the bottle before I reached the couch, you naughty oncologist." House explained using all his patience, dropping the magazine on his lap.

"Ok then, the next time I wanna get drunk I'll look for your consent." Wilson sighed angrily.

"You will never get it. You're such an annoying thing when drunk."

The diagnostician grunted while trying to get confortable on the bed. The Vicodin wasn't working as well as expected and he was facing another sleepless night, damn his leg and the people who liked to hit him. And the hard floor, too.

"House, don't start with that again."

"You are the girly one, not me." He snorted picking the magazine again and wiping the crumbs of his dinner over him.

"And stop calling me that." Wilson's look was serious, but the façade melted as House looked at him with piercing blue eyes "You don't mean it, right? About... About me... sobbing. Was I sobbing last night? Over you?"

"I'm going to do more than meaning it if you don't go to your couch now. In fact I'll smack you with my cane in the shins until you match my gait. How's it sound?"

"I think I'll pass, but... sobbing?" Wilson pushed risking his shins. From his experience, when House was in denial about something it always turned out being quite something.

"Will it make any difference for you if I tell you I didn't meant it?"

A small silence opened between them, but was broken by a sigh.

"Wonderful. Just... marvellous." Wilson threw a hand in dismay "It was about Julie, I suppose."

"Yup."

"...That she doesn't love me... and that we don't…?"

"Yes." Not that House really recall, but it seemed pretty possible. Why would he sob about it if not? After all his wife, whom he loved, was about to kick him off that night, and that hurt. Yeah. That hurt.

"Jesus. That's even better... And there I was, telling you off because you don't want to hear me when you've already done that. Like if I weren't already pathetic enough and--"

"Wilson, don't start with that again," the diagnostician warned pointing at him, "The whole point of not letting you drink was sparing ourselves your self-pity, so shut up." House gritted his teeth as a bolt of pain flared from his thigh; It was time to get ready for bed and for another vicodin. "Weren't you going to sleep or something?"

"Yeah... Sorry." Wilson's shoulders slumped, and he ran a hand over his hair. His sad brown eyes met his friend's as he clutched the blanket. House rolled his eyes, throwing the magazine away.

"C'mon. Now you look like a kicked puppy. Life sucks, get over it. The world didn't stop spinning the last two times."

"It's not the same," the younger one sighed, "With Bonnie--"

"You cheated on Bonnie, Julie cheates on you..." House made a gesture, grabbing his leg to sit at the edge of the mattress." It's karma. So beware, for you'll be the next crippled one..."

"Heaven forbid it," Wilson sighed arching his eyebrows a bit. He had taken only seconds to notice that his friend was trying to make some fun to cheer him up. "Don't wanna take that privilege away from you. Besides, the world isn't ready for you two. It might explode or something."

"The best way to solve a problem is to attack the root of it, so if the world explodes my leg wouldn't hurt and people wouldn't leave." He said getting his t-shirt off and throwing it to a corner of the room. Then, his hands headed for his belt.

"You're forgetting that there will be no leg and no people to come or leave, then." Pointed Wilson noticing how he struggled with the jeans.

House shrugged it off.

"It still seems wonderful to me." He almost grunted, having trouble taking the trousers down to his knees because he was avoiding putting weight on his right leg. When he managed at last, Wilson averted his eyes from his friend. The diagnostician hated his scar, and hated even more when someone looked at it.

The oncologist frowned a bit as House dropped on the bed, thoughtful.

"Leg is another story, but I need people. And even you need somebody, at least."

"Why are you so sure about that? Humanity is overrated. I've my piano, the TV, some beers and Steve, and that's fair enough." House said, his voice thick with the effort of taking his feet out of the jeans and in the pyjamas pants.

"How nice of you, thanks, I'm flattered about your high thoughts about me and our friendship." Wilson rolled his eyes sarcastically. Luckily he knew better than to believe him.

"Hey, you're the one using my place so don't complain about how high I think about you."

"I'm not complaining. In fact I'm going to help you to clean up this pigsty because I'm grateful. See? For me, our friendship is not overrated."

The diagnostician looked at him with the shadow of a mocking smile on his features, his piyamas almost on.

"When you're not being a manipulative bastard you're too nice for your own good. Not sure about which one chicks dig about you, though."

"I'm not manipulative!"

"Yes, you're."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes you're, and if you don't go to sleep right now I'll get up and beat you into pieces, you pest." House winced as he got his legs up the bed again and his friend arched his eyebrows in sympathy.

"Want a cushion?" Wilson asked vaguely pointing at his leg, not being able to help himself in spite of knowing that his concern would not be appreciated.

"Cushions don't relieve psychosomatic pain," House's reply was so full of bitterness that Wilson grimaced, "but my pills will. They're over the living room table."

"I'm not gonna bring them to see you overdose." He sighed leaning on the doorframe. He wasn't ready for another argument about the vicodin and hoped that House wasn't either, but he had to make his point clear.

House snorted. Would Wilson spare him that crap someday?

"Yes you will, because friendship isn't overrated."

"I thought you said you think humanity is."

"Yes, but you don't. So bring them to me. Now."

Wilson shook his head in defeat and went to the living room. Everything was calm, and he couldn't help but look at where he was going to sleep for the next few days. He had already slept on House's couch, but...

He put the blanket over the back of the couch and took a moment to get off his shoes. At least he would have time to think about what to do about his marriage, whether they deserve another opportunity. About him forgiving Julie and... and about him being attracted to one of his terminal patients.

He sighed. Was he always so pathetic?

Looking at the table he found the orange bottle where House said it would be, so he took it and headed for the room again. The pills rattled when he threw it to House.

"There."

"Thanks." The diagnostician mumbled, dry swallowing one pill and placing the bottle over on the beside table, near him just in case. "If you didn't have time to pick up one, there's one of your pyjamas in the bottom drawer of the dresser. They're there since the last time you slept here." House explained noticing Wilson's surprised face.

"You keep my pyjamas? And you never told me about it?"

"Well I thought about using it as a dish cloth, but since I don't usually clean my place I tried to get Steve comfortable and warm, but he didn't like it either so..."

"So you gave my pyjamas to a rat!" Wilson squealed and House chuckled a bit; infuriating Wilson was his favourite pastime ever."... You're unbelievable."

"My, thanks."

The younger doctor rolled his eyes, but felt his lips curving into a small, amused smile.

"Night House."

"Night." 


End file.
